


ring of fire

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bets & Wagers, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One week,” Louis finally says, testing the words out loud. “You're giving me one week to get Zayn to kiss me in order to prove myself?”<br/>“By next week Saturday at midnight,” Liam says excitedly, like some kind of nightmare fairy godmother.<br/>“What could go wrong?” Niall adds.<br/>“I really don't want to be involved with this,” tacks on Harry.<br/>Louis' made worse choices. Probably.<br/>“You're on,” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ring of fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exhibit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhibit/gifts).



> written for the prompt: "one is falling for the other. the other doesnt know or just doesnt know how to handle it? its hard to cross friends to more line." this is... probably not what you had in mind. i hope you enjoy it anyway x
> 
> huge thanks to sam for all her help in making this coherent, and to karen for the lightning quick beta. you don't know how helpful you both are! any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> title from the song of the same name by johnny cash.

 

**SATURDAY**

Honestly, the whole thing is Niall's fault.

Louis' made a home for himself on the lumpy, thread-bare couch, the reigning king of Harry's step-dad's basement. He's sprawled across a cushion and a half, his legs draped over Liam's lap, a sweating can of cheap beer in hand. Taking a sip, he revels in the taste of forbidden freedom, which nearly masks the unfortunate taste of cheap beer.

The sound of feet pounding down the creaky wooden steps catches his attention, and he lets his head loll against the armrest towards the noise. Fitful light from the muted TV splashes over Niall's shoes as he descends, and the rest of him appears a moment later, his gaze fixed on a glossy magazine that he didn't have before he disappeared upstairs to use the bathroom.

“What have you got there, Nialler? Brought us a present, have you?” Louis drawls. He's helped himself to enough beer that he's pleasantly buzzed, but still has an anxious sort of energy crawling beneath his skin, an itch he can't dig his nails in deep enough to scratch. He wants to light a match, watch something burn close enough to feel the heat of flames on his face, the kick of adrenaline chasing away everything else. Typical Saturday night, really.

“Fuck off, Tommo, get your own magazine,” comes Niall's sunny reply. He throws himself into the wilted beanbag that's held together with duct tape and a prayer. As none of them are particularly devout, Louis hopes the duct tape holds.

“Is that a _Cosmo_?” Liam asks, tone more curious than accusing. He's got a soft spot for Niall a mile wide.

“The fuck are you reading _Cosmo_ for?” Louis adds, because he deserves the judgment, honestly.

Brow furrowed, Harry bends to place a coaster under Liam's beer, straightening once the scarred coffee table has been saved from the terrors of condensation, and places his hands on his hips. “Did you get that from Gemma's room?”

Niall ignores them all. “Shh,” he shushes. “I'm trying to read the six things you should know before giving him a rim job.”

There's the awkward sort of pause that only happens when someone says “rim job” in a group setting. Niall doesn't seem to notice.

“Give me that,” Harry finally says, snatching the magazine away. He realizes a moment later that it was possibly not the brightest move, since Louis' in the room and his mouth is already opening in anticipation of the hundreds of rim job themed jokes he can now make at both Harry and Niall's expense. Hastily, Harry shoves the magazine at Liam like the world's weirdest hot potato.

The Liam that Louis met freshman year would have blushed a furious red and dropped the magazine like it was actually on fire. The Liam that Louis has painstakingly pried out of his shell over the past three years simply flips it open, flicking through pages with a mild sort of curiosity until he finds something interesting. “Oh,” he says, “here's a quiz to see how much of a romantic you are.”

“I'd win that in a second,” Louis immediately declares, words pouring recklessly out of his mouth as easily as the beer went in. “No contest.”

“I only read three of the things I should know about rim jobs,” Niall protests with a seriously alarming lack of self-preservation. Harry makes a choked sort of sound.

“Really?” Liam asks. “You think you're the most romantic, Louis?”

Crossing his arms, Louis repeats. “No. Contest.”

The result, of course, is that it immediately becomes a contest. Harry's step-dad's basement fills with the sound of arguing teenage boys, and it's a good thing his parents aren't home, or his mom would definitely be down here yelling at them and threatening to ground Harry once she spotted the beer cans they've left strewn about the room. Not that he'd be grounded for long; even his mom is susceptible to Harry's dimples.

“Okay, okay, everyone shut up so I can ask the questions.” Liam straightens in his seat, shoving Louis' legs off his lap. “First question: describe _The Notebook_ in two sentences.”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” Louis complains, trying to stick his feet back in Liam's lap even as Harry's blurting out, “It's the ultimate love story of an unbreakable bond. Beautifully done, Nicholas Sparks.”

“Ehh,” Niall says. “I've only ever seen the end, but they grow old together and then die together. Oh and they go around in a boat. Ryan Gosling wears a good hat.”

“Ryan Gosling wears a good hat,” repeats Louis in a high-pitched voice that does not all resemble Niall's, but makes Harry laugh all the same.

Liam, meanwhile, is honest to god calculating out point totals, painstakingly writing everyone's results in the margin. Gemma's going to be overjoyed to get her magazine back. “It was only supposed to be two sentences, and Niall gave three. One point for that, I think, and Harry gets two. No points for Louis.” At Louis' outraged look, he adds, “Sorry, bro.”

“This is some bullshit fucki--” Louis starts, but Liam talks right over him. “Question two: when was the last time you bought someone flowers?”

Three head scratches and a hesitant, “Mother's day, maybe....?” later, Liam sighs. “No points for any of you.”

“I want to know who wrote this crap quiz,” Louis announces, reaching a hand out for the magazine. Liam automatically leans away, determination clear in his voice as he says, “Okay, next question: how many candles do you light at any given time?”

Harry looks thoughtful. “Single wick or multiple wick? Do multiple wicks count as one candle? Is it per candle or per wick?”

“I don't know, H, it doesn't specify,” Liam says with more patience than Harry deserves.

Louis crosses his arms, hands tucked into his armpits. “Is this a romance quiz, or a quiz about fire hazards? Because right now, it sounds like a quiz about fire hazards.”

Niall's busy counting under his breath, and possibly with his fingers. “Five or six?” he finally volunteers.

By the end of the quiz, Niall's lost interest, Harry's smugly victorious, and Louis is, quite frankly, offended.

“That was the least scientific, most arbitrary, ridiculous--”

“You're just mad you lost,” Harry gloats, like scoring the most points in a fucking _Cosmopolitan_ quiz is an actual accomplishment to be proud of.

“It's not about the losing, Harold. It's about the injustice,” Louis insists, unable to let it go. “I'm easily the most romantic of any of you. It's a basic fact! I don't need a fucking quiz to prove myself.”

“Oh yeah?” This from Niall, who's sunk so far into the shoddy beanbag chair that he may never come out. “How you gonna prove it, then? 'Cause from where I'm sitting, Harry's the winner.”

Harry beams. “Thank you, Niall.”

“Please. Where you're sitting, you're about six inches from death by suffocation. We'll have to bury you still trapped in that thing.”

Unconcerned, Niall shrugs. The beanbag groans horribly. “What a way to go though. And don't change the subject. You want to be recognized as most romantic, then you have to prove it.” He's being uncharacteristically stubborn. Louis narrows his eyes.

“And how the fuck do you propose I do that?”

Niall's lips curl up slowly and Louis gets the distinct feeling he's stepped directly into a trap. Tipping his can of beer towards Louis, Niall says, “Easy. All you have to do is woo Zayn. Get him to kiss you and prove that you're the winner.”

For the second time tonight, Niall has managed to shock everyone into silence. Louis is the first to find his voice. “You're joking.” His pulse is thrumming beneath his skin, the frantic rhythm of a countdown towards an inevitable implosion.

Shrugging again, Niall drains the last of his beer. “If you don't think you can handle the challenge, then don't do it. Let Harry keep the Most Romantic crown. I don't give a fuck.”

His words say he doesn't, but the way he's watching Louis intensely over the rim of his beer can says otherwise. “Harry doesn't deserve the crown,” Louis says evenly, ignoring Harry's low _hey_ of protest and turning towards Liam. Reliable, dependable Liam.

“Liam. You're reasonable. Tell Niall and Harry they're both wrong. Back me up, here.”

“Well,” Liam says, which is not at all backing Louis up. “I think, like. Niall might be onto something here?” He's apparently developed some sort of telepathy with Niall that involves lots of intense eye contact and exaggerated eyebrow movements. He finally tears his gaze away, fixing an earnest look on Louis. “If you're the romantic you claim to be, then it shouldn't be hard to woo Zayn, should it?”

Louis looks back and forth between Niall and Liam, jaw gaping. “First of all, never say the word 'woo' in my presence again. Second of all... are you _daring_ me to get Zayn to kiss me?”

“Betting,” Niall counters, trying to lean forward. The beanbag gurgles. “We're betting the Most Romantic crown. If you can get Zayn to kiss you in...” he trails off for more telepathy with Liam. “One week,” he finally decides. “One week for a kiss, or you forfeit the crown. That's reasonable, I think.”

It's not reasonable at all, but Liam is nodding enthusiastically, almost bouncing in his seat. This is all wrong. This is what happens when Zayn's parents drag him out of town to go camping for the weekend. Harry's basement turns into _Lord of the Flies_. Louis never actually read the book, mind, but he's pretty sure it involved a lot of betrayal. Possibly a murder.

“Harry,” he says, beseeching. “What--”

“Oh, no,” Harry interrupts. “I've seen this movie. I am not getting involved in this bet.” He pauses. “I will enjoy my Most Romantic crown, though.”

It's not too late for murder.

“Fuck all of you.” Louis' mind is whirring fiercely, trying to find some leverage to take back control of the situation. The rush of blood in his ears is so loud. “What, you're just going to make Zayn a pawn in all this? You realize all I have to do is tell him, and he'll--”

“No!” Liam and Niall say immediately in creepy unison. “You absolutely cannot tell Zayn about this bet,” Liam adds, exchanging another  _l_ _ook_ with Niall. “You have to wo-- get him to kiss you _sincerely_ , Louis. Those are the terms.”

Louis opens his mouth. Closes it. Takes a long drink of beer. It still tastes like piss-soaked freedom. Opens his mouth again. “One week,” he finally says, testing the words out loud. “You're giving me one week to romance Zayn in order to prove myself?”

“By next week Saturday at midnight,” Liam says excitedly, like some kind of nightmare fairy godmother.

“What could go wrong?” Niall adds.

“I really don't want to be involved with this,” tacks on Harry. “But, like. If you need help wooing him, I am a recently certified romantic, so...”

Louis' made worse choices. Probably.

“You're on,” he says. The adrenaline kicks in with a bang.

 

**SUNDAY**

Bored, and slightly hungover, Louis slumps in bed under his covers. He didn't get nearly drunk enough last night to block out any of his terrible decisions, though at least managed to polish off enough beer that he has a handy excuse for them.

Besides, everyone knows that Louis Tomlinson doesn't back down from a bet. It'll be his downfall, someday. Probably next week Saturday at midnight.

Groaning, Louis rolls over to bury his face in his pillow. It has the effect of making it hard to breathe, but doesn't actually do much to cure his hangover or magically erase the night before. He doesn't have the energy to feel outraged, but scrounges up enough for mild annoyance. Annoyance at the low grade throbbing his head, annoyance at his own inability to not make stupid fucking decisions, annoyance at his friends for exploiting it like the bastards they are, and annoyance at Zayn for not being there last night.

That stupid bet wouldn't have happened if Zayn had been there. Not just because he obviously would have known about it, which is strictly against the rules since Liam and Niall are sadists, apparently, but because Zayn could have derailed the whole conversation with a single eyeroll. Louis knows he was played like a fucking fiddle – Niall's never come close to subtle in his life, wouldn't recognize it if it slapped him across the face – but the real question is why Liam and Harry went along with it.

Louis has several working theories that he's managed to develop between the time he cracked his eyelids open and the time he realized that getting out of bed today would be the worst decision he's made since yesterday.

The first one is that his friends are bastards, and they don't think he can pull it off, and it's all for a laugh.

The second is that his friends are total bastards, and they do think he can pull it off, and it's all for a laugh.

The third is that it's not for a laugh at all, but thinking about that one makes his head pound and only leads down dark, twisted roads, so Louis doesn't spend much time dwelling on that one.

It's late afternoon, pushing early evening, before he finally climbs out of bed and directly into the shower, where he turns the water scalding hot to wash off the smell of stale sweat, beer, and regret. The sweat and beer wash off okay, but the regret sticks to his skin, stubborn even when he scrubs with one of his sister's fancy loofahs.

He stumbles downstairs once he's managed to use up the hot water, mouth watering at the smell of whatever his mom's cooking for dinner.

“Where have you been all day?” she asks pointedly when he steps into the kitchen, standing on his toes to reach a glass from the cupboard. Turning the tap to cold, he lets the water run over his fingers for a moment until the temperature's adjusted, filling his glass nearly to the brim.

He gulps down half of it before answering. “Been hitting the books all day. Strained my poor eyes studying. Worked up a real appetite, too.”

She slaps his knuckles with a spoon when he tries to reach for the lid of one of the pans on the stove, shooing him back. “You're my son, and I love you, but you're going to have to try harder than that if you want to lie to my face, sweetheart.”

Holding a hand to his chest, Louis lets himself stagger back a step. “I'm outraged. My own mother, calling me a liar.”

She pins him with a look.

“I thought about studying?” he tries. “It was an exercise in meditation. Very experimental, but I think it'll really pay off in the long run.”

“Uh huh,” she says, leaning over the stove to stir what smells like marinara sauce. “Well, if you're finished with your New Age studying for the day, make yourself useful and gather your sisters up. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Aye-aye, captain.” He gives her a mock salute, and her weary sigh chases him from the room. It takes the full ten minutes to gather all of his sisters up, and by then a steaming tray of garlic bread has joined the spaghetti and meatballs simmering on the stove.

Dinner is as loud and chaotic as it always is, involving at least one spilled glass of milk that threatens the integrity of the garlic bread and several ruined shirts that will forever bear red marinara stains like a badge of honor. Louis falls into the noise and flying elbows easily, which is why he's caught completely off guard when his mom suddenly says, “oh, I almost forgot to ask. How was Zayn's trip? He's back today, isn't he?”

Louis chokes on a bite of garlic bread. His eyes are watering by the time he manages to swallow, and he has to take a few gulps of water before he can make a sound that isn't a wheezing gasp. “He's fine,” Louis finally rasps. “Just peachy.”

“I swear, Lou, you look just like a little lost duckling whenever he's not around, wandering aimlessly--”

“ _Mom_.”

She covers her grin with a forkful of spaghetti. “Of course, sorry. I didn't mean to compare you to a duckling.”

“Quack, quack,” one of his sisters volunteers. He shoots her his darkest look and gets a gap-toothed smile in return.

“That's funny, actually,” Louis informs his mom, “because it's _exactly_ what you did—”

“Would that be the same way you didn't mean to lie to me earlier?” she asks, dabbing delicately at her mouth with a napkin.

“Touché.” It's entirely probable that Louis' quick wit was inherited. He shovels more spaghetti in his mouth so he can't fit his foot in it again.

 

**MONDAY**

Louis slides into his desk first hour only ten minutes late, and it's still another five before Zayn slinks into the room, offering their teacher a sheepish smile before folding himself into the empty seat next to Louis.

The greatest thing about sharing World History with Zayn is that by comparison, Louis looks like an excellent student who values things like attendance and being prompt. It's also entirely possible that Mr. Jarvis as written them both off as chronic underachievers, but Zayn at least manages passing grades and Louis manages to copy most of Zayn's work, so it all works out in the end. More or less.

Mr. Jarvis has already turned back to the board, chalk scraping as he writes out a lesson that Louis isn't going to bother taking notes on. Instead, he leans in to Zayn's side, close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Was beginning to think you'd been eaten by bears.”

Zayn's voice is sleep-rough, scraping against his throat when he mutters back, “Who says I wasn't? Maybe I'm dead and my ghost is haunting you.”

Louis considers this. “Laziest haunting I've ever experienced. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

“Oh, you're some kind of authority on hauntings now, are you?” Zayn sounds amused, and still a little sleepy. It makes Louis want to curl up and take a nap on his boney shoulder. It's hard to say if that's a side effect of Zayn or World History, though. Could be a really efficient tag team effort.

He tries to stifle a yawn, tapping his pencil against the edge of his desk in an offbeat rhythm to stay awake. Zayn flips his own notebook open, by all appearances about to start taking notes. Glancing at the clock, Louis gives himself a generous five minutes to distract Zayn completely.

The bell rings before Louis remembers about the bet. He glances down at the scrap of notebook paper he and Zayn have been playing hangman on instead of paying attention to Mr. Jarvis' lecture on... communism, maybe? Zayn's sketched in a Jedi knight, complete with a light saber, mid-swing about to sever the rope and save the day. The Jedi has a dark quiff poking out from his hood, and the soon-to-be-hanged man is wearing a distinct stripey shirt. Louis tries not to read into it.

He should've been writing Zayn poetry or something. In retrospect, choosing the phrase _BEARS CAN SMELL THE MENSTRUATION_ was not his smoothest move. Zayn still hasn't picked the letter 'B', probably on purpose, so it only says _EARS CAN SMELL THE MENSTRUATION_ , which is not any better. The shading on the Jedi's robe is pretty sick though.

Zayn's packing up with the rest of the class, two dog-eared notebooks and an inexplicable physics textbooks – Zayn's not actually in physics, Louis' nearly sure – when Louis blurts out, “Let me carry your books.”

Slowly, Zayn looks up at him, blinking in confusion. “Why?”

Louis doesn't let himself get distracted by the ridiculous length of Zayn's eyelashes. “I'm turning over a new leaf. Trying to be a better person, one good deed at a time.”

Zayn's eyes narrow in suspicion. “You're going to throw my things off the roof, aren't you?”

“Why would _that_ be your first assumption, oh my god.”

Shrugging, Zayn tightens his grip on the his books, holding them close to his chest. “Seems like the kind of thing you'd do.”

Well, it's not like Louis can argue that point. “Okay. What if I promise _not_ to throw your books off the roof?”

“I'd still want to know why you want to carry them.”

Louis throws his hands up. This romancing business would be a lot easier if Zayn would just _go with it_. “Fine! Carry your own books. No good deed goes unpunished, christ.”

“Uh. Louis? You okay?”

“I'm great. I'll see you at lunch. Try not to get eaten by any bears.”

Zayn scratches his head. “Think that was more of an isolated concern while I was camping, so. I'm not too worried? Seriously, are you okay, Lou?”

Louis drags a hand over his face, buying himself a moment to pull himself together. “Sorry. Long weekend. Our friends are idiots, did you know? You left me to the wolves, honestly. No more camping trips. Promise me, Zayn.”

Laughing, Zayn nudges his shoulder against Louis', steering him towards the door. “Wasn't my choice, bro. Mom wanted to do some 'family bonding' shit. Believe me, Harry's basement is like a palace compared to a tent in the middle of the woods. At least my dad's snoring kept away all the bears.”

“Always gotta one up me, don't you?”

Zayn grins, his tongue tucked behind his teeth. “You're a terrible loser, Louis. Someone's gotta put you in your place.”

Louis knows, objectively, that Zayn didn't mean that the way it sounded. He also knows, objectively, the way Zayn's mouth moves when he talks. He hadn't really considered, before this moment, the reality of his situation.

Kissing Zayn has always been an abstract sort of concept. Anyone who's looked at him has thought about it, Louis' sure. He's no exception, but it's never been more than a passing whim before Louis' overactive brain is latching on to the next stupid thought. It's never been a goal that Louis' going to spend a week putting effort towards reaching. Zayn's never joked about putting Louis in his place while Louis has stared at his mouth.

It's possible, Louis considers, that he's made a terrible mistake.

“See you at lunch,” he chokes out before beating a hasty retreat down the crowded hall.

-

Since punctuality is not in Zayn's otherwise expansive repertoire, Louis gets a few Zayn-free moments with the other boys at the start of lunch.

He plops into the seat next to Liam, letting his tray drop onto the table with a loud clatter. Years of conditioning has taught Liam not to flinch at the noise.

“I've made a terrible mistake,” Louis announces to the table. Niall doesn't break eye contact with his sandwich, and Harry's busy writing bad poetry in the moleskin diary he insists on carrying around (“It's a _journal_ , Louis”). Liam at least gives him a few sympathetic pats on the shoulder, but it's clear that his heart isn't it. He's just going through the motions.

“I said,” Louis repeats, louder. “I've made a _terrible_ _mistake_.”

“What'd you do this time, Louis?” Zayn asks, sinking gracefully into the open chair by Niall. Louis has to forcibly resist thunking his head onto the table.

“I don't know,” he groans. “But my bad karma is catching up to me. It's the only explanation.”

“Well, you do have plenty of bad karma,” Liam offers, cringing a second later at the dark glare Louis shoots him.

“Aww, don't be mean to Louis,” Zayn protests. “He can't help himself. He's like that alien, from that movie.”

“You're going to have to be more specif--”

“Stitch,” Harry supplies, looking up from his notebook for the first time. “I totally see it.”

Zayn's grin turns sly. “His badness level is unusually high... for someone his size.”

“I am 5'9”,” Louis calmly informs the table. “Which is _above average_.”

“You know what's above average?” Niall finally puts his sandwich down and raises a single eyebrow. “My di--”

It's Harry who slaps a palm over his mouth, laughing as he tries to muffle him. “There are freshmen here!”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, and they're the only ones who're gonna believe that Niall's above average.”

Peeling Harry's hand away, Niall sunnily informs him, “One word for ya, chief: tripod.”

It's not the first conversation that has devolved into a discussion about Niall's dick, and probably won't be the last. At least it's a nice distraction from Louis' current plight. Until Niall catches his eye while Harry's rambling on about something – not Niall's dick, thankfully, the table appears to have moved on – and glances meaningfully towards where Zayn's sitting on his left.

As subtly as possible, Louis shakes his head. Niall makes a face, so it clearly wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, but as Louis still can't read minds and Zayn's still sitting _right there_ , this conversation is going to have to wait.

Luckily Zayn doesn't seem to notice the exchange, leaning back in his seat to talk to Harry over Niall's slumped shoulders. Their discussion seems to require a lot of wild hand gestures and Harry nodding seriously to all of Zayn's points. Must be an art thing. Once the two of them get going, it's hard to to make them stop.

“I'm gonna -” Louis lifts his tray, jerks his head towards the garbage bins. Zayn and Harry don't notice, but Niall shoves his chair back, ducking under Zayn's arm as he makes a particularly aggressive statement, and follows after Louis.

“So,” he says brightly once they're out of earshot of the table. “That terrible mistake of yours wouldn't involve you forfeiting our bet after only two days, would it? Gotta say, I expected more of you, Tommo.”

“I'm going to throw you in the garbage,” Louis decides, dumping the scraps from his tray and sliding it into the return slot. “And I'm not even going to feel bad about it.”

“That's the spirit!” Niall enthuses, slapping Louis on the back. He leans in to whisper directly into Louis' face, breath hot and smelling a bit like pickle. “We started a betting pool, you know. My money's on Friday.”

“ _What_?” The sound he makes is definitely not a squawk, no matter what unreliable parties may later claim.

Niall grins. “Liam picked Saturday. Thinks you're going to make it just under the wire.”

“What about Harry?” Louis asks immediately, unable to help himself.

Shaking his head, Niall replies, sounding fond, “Fucking idiot. He picked Sunday, thought you'd sweep Zayn off his feet right away. He's already out.”

Louis squints suspiciously at Niall. “I didn't think any of you thought I could do it.”

Throwing an arm across Louis' shoulders, Niall drifts back towards the table, pulling Louis along for the ride. “Hey, man. It's your crown for the taking.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Take it on Friday so I win, yeah?”

 

**TUESDAY**

It occurs to Louis as he's brushing his teeth before school that if he wants to pull this off, he's got to commit. Zayn's going to see right through any half-baked plans, is going to question Louis every step of the way, and if Louis doesn't have an answer prepared it's all going to explode right in his face.

Spitting into the sink, Louis sticks his face directly under the faucet to rinse his mouth, runs his tongue over his minty teeth. What he needs to do, he realizes, is set the mood. This isn't exactly a long con, he figures. The bet was a single kiss. For a single moment, he needs to trick Zayn into thinking Louis is someone worth kissing.

A plan starts to form, the details slotting slowly into place.

-

After a surprisingly pleasant lunch, without a single reference to Niall's dick, Louis ducks out the back doors near the gym instead of going to biology.

He didn't do the homework, because he was too busy not thinking about Zayn, and anyway Eleanor can be bribed into lending him her notes if he pours on enough charm. Besides, there are more important things on the line than learning about mitosis, or whatever.

Louis strides forward purposefully, eyes straight ahead. The key to not getting caught skipping class is looking like this is exactly where you're supposed to be. No one is supposed to be skulking around by the dumpsters behind the school, and in about ten minutes the gym doors are going to slam open with a swarm of students heading towards the tennis courts, so Louis doesn't really have time to dawdle.

Whistling a little tune under his breath, he quickly unlocks his bike from the rack, cutting through the parking lot and down the street. Under normal circumstances, Zayn would be pedaling alongside him, head thrown back in a laugh because he gets a kick out of cutting class.

Today, though, Louis' on a mission. It's about a ten minute bike ride to the florist, and he's only slightly sweaty when he drops his bike on its side outside the door, goosebumps breaking out across his skin as he steps into the cool interior.

His first thought, upon entering, is that there are a lot of fucking flowers in here. His second is that he has no idea how he's supposed to know which kind Zayn likes best, and maybe he didn't think this through as well as he should have. Roses, maybe? They seem like a safe bet, but Louis doesn't want something safe. He wants something _Zayn_. Wandering down the narrow aisle, he pokes at a random flower, running his fingertip over the fragile bloom. He has a sudden understanding of the phrase 'petal soft' and tries not to compose any poems in his head about Zayn's mouth.

“Can I help you?” comes a voice as chilly as the A/C.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Louis whirls around towards the counter and says, “Um. I'm looking for some flowers?”

Red lips curl into a disdainful smile. “Well, you've certainly come to the right place. What's the occasion?”

Shit. They probably don't make 'I'm trying to fool my best friend into kissing me to win a bet' bouquets. Louis doesn't know why he thought this was a good idea. “I, uh,” he stammers. “There's this – person, who I – I mean, I wanted to do something special, and I – you know, on second thought, maybe it wasn't...”

The florist's smile suddenly looks ten degrees warmer. “I see,” she says, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her eyes trail up and down Louis' ripped jeans and faded band shirt, calculating but not cruel. He realizes, suddenly, how out of place he looks in the crowded, sweet-smelling little shop.

“I'm not sure what kind of budget you had in mind,” the florist says, gently. “But I think perhaps something simple will do the trick? It's easy to go overboard on flowers. Sometimes subtly will get you a lot farther than you think.”

Louis is glad she thinks so, because he takes a staggering step back at the first price tag he spots. “Fifty dollars for a bunch of roses?” he asks weakly. “That's a bit... over my budget.”

The florist shakes her head definitively. “No, no, I think you need something a little more...” she trails off, tapping her finger against her red mouth thoughtfully. “One second,” she finally says, disappearing into the back room.

Louis waits, shifting his weight uncomfortably, the thick scent of too many flowers making his head feel stuffy. He's about to say fuck it, walk next door to CVS and buy Zayn some candy, when the florist emerges from the back with a handful of flowers.

It's a smaller bouquet than any of the ones on display and Louis can't name a single flower it contains, but it's pretty, in a delicate sort of way, all pale blues and faded purples. Zayn will love it.

Louis swallows. “How much is it?”

“Oh, it's on special today,” the florist informs him with a warm smile. “It's only $9.99.”

Louis has a very strong suspicion that what's actually special about this bouquet is that the florist threw together a bunch of flowers from the backroom because it was obvious he couldn't afford anything in this shop, but he's not dumb enough to voice this out loud. Instead, he pulls his wallet from his pocket, sliding out a few wrinkled bills.

A few minutes later he's on his way, flowers held protectively to his chest as he pedals back to school.

-

It's actually harder to sneak back into school than it was to sneak out, and involves some serious James Bond role-playing when he ends up having to pick his way through the crowded boys' locker room without crushing his bouquet. He makes a pit stop at his locker for the final touch – a little plastic skull that was probably once a cheap Halloween decoration, but now adds a personalized bit of flair amongst the blooms – before heading towards the wing of the school that houses most of the art rooms.

Louis memorized Zayn's schedule before his own, since he spends more time finding excuses to skip and visit Zayn than actually sitting through class. He's timed his flower run perfectly so that he's already leaning casually against the wall outside Zayn's drawing class, letting the flow of students stream by between classes. Zayn, of course, is one of the last to trickle by, his gaze faraway as he absently bobs his head to whatever music he's got playing in his headphones.

The second he spots Louis, his face splits into a wide grin, as if he hadn't just spent all of lunch talking Louis' ear off about which Avenger would be most likely to win an arm wrestling tournament. Louis' stomach gives a funny little flip.

“Hey, Lou,” Zayn says, stepping in close to avoid the crush of students. “What're you doing here?” He sounds more happy than curious, Louis' unexpected appearance a bright spot in his day.

“I, uh.” Smiling weakly, he holds up his little bouquet. “Brought you something.”

Zayn's grin doesn't dim one watt, but his face... softens, almost. “Flowers?” he asks, finger poking gently at the plastic skull. “I like this little guy.”

“Thought you might.”

He glances up at Louis, his chin still ducked so that he has to peer through his eyelashes. “It's perfect, bro.”

Louis lets out a slow breath, tension easing out of his lungs. “Really?”

Happily, Zayn nods, tracing his finger along one of the stems until he's nearly touching Louis' hand where he's still gripping the bouquet tight. “It's way better than the stupid still life collections Ms. Watson has set up.”

“Oh,” Louis says. Thinking back, the conversation he tried to tune out at lunch the other day may have included something about a still life project. “Yeah, I mean.” He can't think of a single thing to follow that up.

“Seriously, bro, this is sick!” He wraps an arm around Louis' middle, careful not to hurt the flowers as he squeezes Louis in a half-hug.

“Thanks,” Zayn murmurs directly into Louis' ear before he pulls back, ducking his chin again. Feeling a little out of his depth, Louis holds the bouquet out for Zayn to take, palm itching with sweat.

Zayn's fingers brush against his as he reaches for the flowers, looking pleased, a pink flush to his cheeks. Louis realizes with a start that the bell's going to ring in a minute, and his next class is on the other side of the building.

“I should, um... class.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, his sweaty palm skating easily against his skin. Not giving Zayn a chance to respond, he turns on his heel, retreating down the hall.

He only manages to make it a few steps before Zayn calls his name. “Louis.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Louis tilts his head expectantly.

“You didn't have to get me flowers,” Zayn says. He's holding the bouquet with two hands, the tallest bloom nearly tickling his chin.

Louis clears his throat. “It's not a big deal. I wanted to.”

The corner of Zayn's mouth quirks up. “You're gonna be late.”

“Shit, I know. See ya later, yeah?” This time Zayn doesn't call after him and Louis is able to make his escape, breaking into a run once he rounds the corner. The bell rings for class before he makes it even halfway, and Louis ducks into the bathroom, out of breath. Splashing cold water on his face, he braces himself against the porcelain sink, waiting for the thud of his heart to slow down.

It's a long time before he makes it to class.

 

**WEDNESDAY**

This week is racing by, a countdown in overdrive ticking furiously towards Saturday. Louis' got even less time to pull this off if he wants to make sure that neither Liam or Niall can capitalize on his success.

Luckily for today's plans, Lottie has a dance recital tonight. Or maybe a gymnastics thing? She's got a something, anyway, that Louis' mom is taking the rest of the girls along to, which means that Louis has the house to himself for a few blissful hours.

Zayn spends more time at Louis' house than his own, so it's not difficult to convince him to come over after school. Louis finds it a touch more challenging to arrange the candles he pilfered from the living room around his bedroom in a sensual, yet artful manner, and nearly calls Harry to ask if he should be using candles with multiple wicks before he realizes he's being a fucking idiot and shakes himself out of it.

He spends so long agonizing over candle placement that he nearly forgets to shove his pile of dirty clothes under the bed, and he has to hastily finish tidying up as the front door opens with a low whine. A second later Zayn's voice rings out, calling his name.

“Come to my room!” Louis shouts back, thumbing through his phone to find a playlist that falls somewhere between romantic and chill. He settles for one titled _songs to get high to_ and hopes for the best. There's no time to check his hair in the mirror, but then the candlelight is pretty dim with the shades drawn against the late afternoon light. It'll be hard to make out any details, like Louis' fucked up hair or the nervous tremor in his hands. Neat trick.

Zayn's shuffling footsteps creak down the hall, and then he's pushing open the door to Louis' room. He stands in the doorway a moment, surveying the softly flickering candlelight and how for once, Louis' floor is mostly clear of shit. Turns out he's got a rug. Who knew.

“We smoking, then?” Zayn asks, stepping into the room and gently shutting the door behind him.

For a second, Louis' brain goes perfectly blank. There's nothing but white noise as Zayn crosses the room, climbing onto Louis' bed and settling his familiar warm weight next to him. Bleakly, Louis' gaze traces over the collection of candles, the Phish song playing from his tinny phone speakers, trying to view the scene through Zayn's eyes.

What had, only moments before, appeared artistically romantic, a true masterpiece of seduction, now looks exactly like Louis collecting up his mom's candles to cover up the acrid scent of smoke. It's been awhile since they've smoked at Louis' – the house is so rarely empty, and he's quickly realizing that even his strongest efforts to hide it were probably dismal at best – but of course that would be Zayn's assumption.

Fuck. Maybe Louis really isn't the romantic he thought he was, if he can't even get candles right.

He brushes off the thought almost immediately. He's still got a few days, and more importantly, Zayn in his bed. Zayn's tucked himself up against Louis' side, arms looping around his middle, but since he's all skin and bones, it's sort of like being cuddled by a warm skeleton. A nice, warm skeleton, Louis amends, that smells like familiar shampoo and a hint of faded cologne.

Smoking hadn't been the plan, really, but Louis can adapt. “I like that you assume I can reach it from here with you clinging to me like a fucking octopus.”

Zayn makes a humming noise that Louis can feel vibrate through his own chest. “Thought maybe you started without me. Gonna get a contact high, like.”

“Without you?” Louis scoffs. “Never. And anyway, a contact high's not a real thing.”

Zayn's arms don't loosen their grip around Louis' waist. Actually, he just snuggles more aggressively, his chin digging into Louis' shoulder, barely-there stubble tickling Louis' neck.

“Still can't reach,” Louis comments after a long moment of allowing Zayn to try to cuddle him to death.

“Just use a Jedi mind trick,” Zayn suggests. “ _This is the_ _pot_ _you're looking for._ ”

A sound that's more breath than laugh escapes Louis' throat. “I mean, that's one option, yeah. Or you could accept that we're not actually Jedis and let go of me long enough to find it?”

It's lucky that Louis does have a bit of pot left, probably, stuffed at the very back of his sock drawer. The conversation has gone too far off track to correct now, and anyway a hit or two might help numb the jittery feeling deep in Louis' gut.

“Don't wanna,” Zayn mumbles, his words mostly muffled into Louis' neck. Louis tries not to shiver at the sensation of Zayn's lips dragging against his skin. It's not really a success.

But maybe it's an opportunity. “We don't have to smoke,” Louis offers. “Could just, like. Enjoy the candles?”

“They're nice,” is Zayn's diplomatic reply. He sounds half asleep already, still draped partly over Louis like he's Zayn's personal body pillow. It's appealing, actually, to curl up with Zayn for a nap. He always sleeps best when he gets to steal Zayn's warmth, wakes up content with Zayn's gentle breathing soft against the back of his neck.

It'd be nice, but the point of all this is to do something special, to get Zayn to see him in a different light, just for a moment.

Planning ahead hasn't really worked out so far. Louis decides to go with instinct. One of his arms is already wrapped around Zayn's middle, and he lets his fingers trail up and down Zayn's side, pressing just hard enough to feel the bones of his ribs through his thin t-shirt. Zayn sort of melts against him, a cat-like puddle, and that's when Louis strikes.

He pushes Zayn into the mattress, laughing wildly as he throws a thigh over Zayn's hips, pinning him down. Zayn blinks up at him, caught off guard, and Louis digs his fingers harder into Zayn's sides, just above his hips, working his way up to his armpits until Zayn is thrashing underneath him, wide awake, his breath escaping in hiccuping laughs.

“Fuck, stop, that _tickles_ , Louis,” Zayn manages to gasp, trying to fend Louis off but laughing too hard to put up much of a fight. His shirt rucks up, revealing a sliver of tan skin, and his face is flushed red as he tries to catch his breath, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Merciless, Louis seats himself firmly on Zayn's hips, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his waist, fingers poking at any spot Zayn leaves defenseless as he squirms.

It's a short-lived victory, because even though he's as skinny as Louis, Zayn has hidden reservoirs of wiry strength. Somehow, he manages to plant his foot on the bed, using the leverage to snap his hips up and roll them over so that Louis' one the who's pinned, Zayn grinning triumphantly above him.

Louis' not about to go down without a fight, and he hooks his ankle around Zayn's leg, succeeding in rolling them again. It's not the most well thought-out move, since Louis doesn't actually have a king-sized bed, and the mattress comes to an abrupt end. They crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, knocking into Louis' dresser with a loud rattle, still trying to pin each other. Louis lands directly on his back, the air knocked from his lungs in a wordless gasp, and for a second Zayn's face folds into a mask of concern.

“You all right, bro?” he asks, eyebrows pinching with worry. He landed on his hands and knees, of course, like a damn cat, but at least managed not to crush Louis beneath him.

“I'll live,” Louis wheezes, chest heaving as he tries to find his breath. His face is probably as red as Zayn's, and he can feel beads of sweat prickling at his temple. Zayn's crouched over him, his thighs straddling Louis' waist and his hands caging either side of Louis' face to keep his balance.

Carefully, Zayn shifts himself lower, until their hips are aligned and he doesn't have to arch his back just to keep his eyes level with Louis'. He lets his weight settle, sitting back on Louis' thighs, but keeps his hands where they are, framing Louis' cheeks.

Louis' hands have found the fabric of Zayn's jeans all on their own, tracing over the seam running along his thigh in a nervous sort of pattern without Louis' express permission. The light from the candles on Louis' dresser is flickering brightly, painting the angles of Zayn's face in a warm glow. Louis tries to swallow, but it gets stuck in his throat. Even to his own ears, his breathing sounds ragged, like he's just run a mile instead of lost a short-lived tickle fight.

Mouth dry, Louis licks his chapped lips, rough against his tongue. He doesn't miss the way Zayn's eyes follow the movement, the whiskey ring of his irises nearly swallowed by black. One of Zayn's thumbs brushes against his cheek, a barely there touch as Zayn shifts his weight.

All he'd need to do is lean down to press their mouths together. Louis tightens his grip on Zayn's thighs, grappling for something to hold onto, his head suddenly dizzy. At the touch, Zayn jolts a bit, gaze flicking between Louis' eyes and his mouth. It might be a trick of the light, the way his face keeps swimming closer, like maybe Zayn's moving in slow motion, cautious against spooking a wild animal.

Zayn must've been leaning in, because he's close enough that Louis can feel the tickle of his breath when his lips part and he says, voice barely more than a whisper, “Louis, I... I smell smoke?”

Louis' eyes snap open. He didn't even realize he'd let them slip shut. “Oh, fuck.”

Zayn scrambles off of him, and Louis quickly sits up, pushing to his feet. One of the candles on his dresser has been knocked on its side, and what might have once been a book he skimmed for English is now very much on fire.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” he repeats, as the flames lick higher. The whole dresser hasn't caught – yet – but tendrils of smoke curl into the air, dark against the white ceiling. Louis' mom is going to fucking kill him.

“What do we – water? Should I get some water?” he asks, panic leaking into his voice. The smoke has crawled its way into the hall and the smoke detector starts to scream, a frantic beeping that sets Louis' teeth on edge.

The noise seems to spur Zayn into action. Whipping his shirt over his head, he wraps the material around his hand and uses his impromptu oven mitt to knock the flaming book onto the floor. Flakes of ash splinter off, glittering red hot as they flutter to the ground and snuff out. While Louis watches, paralyzed, Zayn stomps onto the book with his heavy boots, the flames sputtering beneath his soles.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for Zayn to stamp out the fire, but the moment seems to stretch on forever. He's still breathing a little raggedly as he reaches a hand out to grab the fallen candle, bringing it to his lips to blow it out before it can light something else on fire.

There are scorch marks on the dresser and Louis' newly discovered rug is ruined. The suffocating smell of smoke clings heavily and the alarm in the hall is still beeping, the sound impossibly loud, ringing in Louis' ears. Zayn meets Louis' gaze, eyes wide and mouth gaping a bit. His hand is still wrapped up in his shirt, his chest bare and a little sweaty.

“Zayn,” Louis breathes. “Holy shit. How did you _do_ that?”

Slowly, Zayn's mouth curves up into a disbelieving smile. “I dunno,” he says. “I just asked myself, WWLD?”

“WWLD?”

Zayn's grin grows even wider, splitting his face in two. “What Would Liam Do?”

Letting himself sink onto the edge of his mattress, because his knees are still shaking a bit and he can't hide the trembling, Louis laughs weakly. “Yeah, well, you nailed that one. Liam would definitely rip his shirt off and go full firefighter mode, putting it out with his bare hands. Well done.”

At Louis' words, Zayn glances down, looking surprised to see an expanse of bare skin. “Oh, yeah. I, um. Didn't want to burn any of your stuff, if it didn't work, so.”

Louis flops back on the bed, boneless. The smoke alarm has finally stopped screaming, and the silence is so loud. “Bro, my whole house could've burned if that hadn't worked. You're, like, an actual fucking superhero.”

Zayn shrugs one shoulder, his gaze fixed on the balled up t-shirt in his hand. He turns it over and over, frowning at the wrinkled fabric. “Nah. Just paid attention to fire safety, didn't I? 'S nothing.”

Louis sits up straight. “It's not nothing.”

It's hard to tell in the barely-there light of the single candle still burning, but Zayn's cheeks look a little pink. Slowly, Louis climbs to his feet, knees steadier than they were a moment ago. He pauses to blow out the last candle – it'll be a while, he thinks, before he's able to see another candle without feeling a crippling wave of panic – and then the only light is the setting sun sneaking in through the edges of the curtain, bathing the room a gold-tipped red.

Placing his hands on his hips, Louis cocks his head, considering. “You think there's any way we can convince my mom I didn't almost light the house on fire?”

Zayn's grin comes crawling back. “Got any Febreze?”

 

**THURSDAY**

Zayn's early to lunch the next day, or maybe Louis' just late.

He slept terribly, woke up in a coughing panic a few hours before his alarm went off, the phantom taste of smoke coating the back of his throat. The details of the dream faded within seconds of his eyes snapping open, but the residual terror took a lot longer to die off, his heart pounding against the wall of his chest hard enough to bruise.

There are dark bags under his eyes and he can't stop yawning as he shuffles into the cafeteria, feet dragging against the tiled floor. He collapses into a chair, picking at his food, and it takes a long moment for him to register that there are four pairs of eyes on him.

“All right, boys?” he asks around a mouthful mac-n-cheese.

“Should be asking you that, shouldn't we?” Niall's grin is actually evil.

Louis' spoon clatters to the tray. He gives Zayn his most wounded eyes. “You _told_.”

Biting his lip like he's trying not to smile, Zayn shrugs. “Didn't think it was a secret. Besides, it's a funny story.”

“Too many candles, was it?” Liam asks, doing a piss-poor job of looking innocent.

“Single or multiple wick?” Harry chimes in, cheek dimpling.

“You gotta be careful. Candles can be a real fire hazard,” Niall adds.

Pushing his tray away, Louis lets his forehead drop to the table, folding his arms over his head. “I hate all of you,” he moans. They all laugh, including Zayn, who doesn't even get the joke.

There's a nudge against his shoulder, and Louis cracks his eye open far enough to see Liam's face, crinkling happily at him. “Hey,” he says. “At least Zayn was there, right? Saved the day.”

Across the table, Zayn nods seriously, but can't stop the upward curve of his lips. “I'd always save you, Louis,” he says, and beneath the teasing tone Louis hears the promise in his words.

Another snatch of his nightmare comes filtering back, hot flames licking up the wall and Zayn's hand, reaching, reaching, just out of grasp.

Louis lets his eyes slip closed again. “Next time, just let me burn.”

-

He gets shit the rest of the day, and even though he definitely deserves it – god knows he'd be ribbing Liam mercilessly, if their situations were reversed – by the time his last class ends, Louis is beyond tired and cranky. All he wants to do is burrow deep under his covers and sleep for at least a week. Possibly forever.

His plans to duck out of the building and march straight into bed are waylaid when he slams his locker shut, only to be suddenly faced with a cheerful Niall.

“Jesus Christ.” Louis definitely doesn't clutch at his chest in fright. He just doesn't appreciate being _startled,_ thanks.

Niall grins. “Been lookin' for ya,” he informs Louis.

“Then congratulations are in order, because you've succeeded. Great job, give yourself a pat on the back. See you later.” Shrugging his backpack over one shoulder, Louis stalks towards the exit.

Instead of recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Niall just falls quietly into step beside him, keeping up with his quick pace easily, even with his bum knee. Louis tries not to take it personally, but his teeth grind all the same.

They've nearly reached the door before Niall speaks again. “My mom let me borrow the car today, if you want a ride home...?”

God, he's good. “Fine,” Louis snaps, his resolve to avoid whatever conversation Niall clearly wants to have crumbling at a pathetic pace if it means he doesn't have to bike home. He makes Niall load the bike into the back for him, just to be a dick, but Niall doesn't bat an eye, even when he has to wrestle with a bungee cord to tie down the lid of the trunk.

At least he doesn't drag it out, getting straight to the point as soon as he slams the car door shut. “You look like shit,” he says, checking his blind spot instead of looking at Louis. “What the fuck are you doing, trying to burn your house down? If you wanted to go with the damsel in distress route, you should probably pick something a little less dangerous, yeah?”

On second thought, maybe Louis would rather bike the whole way home. Uphill in the rain. A blizzard, even. “For fuck's sake. I didn't try to burn my house down _on purpose_. Me and Zayn were, like, wrestling or whatever, and we knocked into the dresser. It was an accident.”

Niall's gaze cuts to his for a moment, his eyebrows distinctly unimpressed. “Candlelight wrestling? Think you're digging yourself into a deeper hole here.”

“How much do you have riding on this bet, hmm? You're awfully invested.”

Niall laughs. “Believe me, bro, it's not about the money.”

“Then what--”

“Listen,” Niall interrupts. “Be honest with me, okay, Lou? This whole, romancing Zayn thing. You're on board, yeah? This isn't just a dare that got out of hand?”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest, looks out the window. “Thought it was a bet.”

“You know what I mean.”

The light of an upcoming traffic signal flips to yellow and Niall presses down on the gas, shooting through the intersection to the soundtrack of blaring horns. Louis presses his forehead to the window, ignoring the way the seatbelt cuts into his throat. “Are you asking me if I'm on board to kiss Zayn?”

“You once ate a raw egg because Harry dared you to,” Niall reminds him.

“Yeah, and then I threw up on his shoes. Good times. Fond memories.”

“Louis.” There's a warning in Niall's voice. He's tenacious when he sets his mind to something. Clever little mastermind, trapping Louis in a moving vehicle so he can't run from this conversation. Louis would be impressed, if he weren't busy being annoyed.

Forehead still pressed to the glass, which rattles uncomfortably against his skull, Louis sighs loudly. “I'm not going to throw up on Zayn, if that's what you're hinting at. It's not, like, a hardship to kiss him or anything. I mean, have you seen Zayn? You've got eyes. I've done a lot worse, to win a bet.” It tastes like a lie, when he says it out loud.

“I do have eyes,” Niall acknowledges, which was easily the least important part of Louis' speech. “And I can see that you're doing an absolute shit job of wooing Zayn.”

“Well fuck, Nialler, don't hold back. Don't want you sparing my feelings or anything.”

“You almost burned your house down because you were _candlelight wrestling_ ,” Niall says. “The only thing you should feel is embarrassed.”

“It wasn't like – look, there was a moment, right, that I thought – it looked like he was going to – I mean, I don't know for sure, 'cause, like, the fire, but--”

Niall slams on the brakes so hard that Louis' head thumps painfully against the window, tires squealing beneath them. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry, red light,” Niall says. Louis glances up, rubbing at his head, and catches sight of a signal that is very much yellow. “It'll be red in a sec,” he adds, dismissive. “Anyway, could you repeat that sentence, minus all the stuttering? There was a moment where Zayn was going to...?”

“That is, unfortunately, the entirety of the sentence. Nothing more to add, I'm afraid, since _I almost burned my fucking house down and no one will let me forget it._ ”

Niall frowns. “You're a little sensitive about this fire thing.”

Louis' voice is acid. “Am I?”

He can hear Niall's eyeroll. “Look, it turned out all right, didn't it? Your house is fine and Zayn got to play the hero. He probably hasn't stopped jerkin' it, just thinking about saving you from certain death.”

“Do you ever listen to the words that come out of your mouth?” Louis wonders aloud. “Or does every bullshit thought that crosses your brain just come blurting out?”

The light must turn green, or Niall's continuing his fun new hobby of completely disregarding traffic signals, because the car jolts forward, Niall's foot heavy on the gas. “The second one, probably. But I'm being 100% serious. Zayn would literally walk through a burning building just to pull your ass out.”

“He'd do the same thing for a box of kittens,” Louis argues. “It's _Zayn_.”

That one stumps Niall for an entire twenty seconds. “Fair,” he finally agrees. “But no one's bet on Zayn making out with kittens.”

“First of all, ew. Please work on that brain to mouth filter, Niall. I did not need that visual. Second of all, there is a big difference between _kissing_ and _making out_.” Kissing Zayn is one thing. It's a maybe-attainable goal, something Louis can probably recover from, perhaps even one day look back fondly on as just another terrible mistake of his youth. Making out with Zayn will probably kill him.

“Whatever. Listen, do you want my help or not?”

Louis' jaw gapes. “Was the point of this entire conversation so that you could offer me help? Because, and this is just so you know, I could have lived my whole life never having had this talk, and been better for it.”

“Lies. This was a great talk! Anyway, check this out. Are you ready?” Niall bangs out a drumroll against the steering wheel, the car briefly drifting into oncoming traffic before he rights it.

“Get to the fucking point before you kill us,” Louis grits out.

“Friday night,” Niall says in his best announcer voice. “Drive-in movie. We'll take two cars and some blankets, make sure you and Zayn sit next to each other. Not that it'll be hard, since he's guaranteed to pick the spot next to you anyway, but we'll all make sure to give you guys some privacy.”

He waggles his eyebrows at Louis. “Genius plan, no? You two sharing a blanket under the stars, double feature movie so you've got twice as much time. Could even get a little frisky, if Zayn's into it.”

Louis snorts, but it actually is a genius plan. Catching Niall's eye, he raises his own brow back at him. “Friday night, huh? Some coincidence. Wouldn't have ulterior motives, now would we?”

Niall grins. “Well. It might be a little bit about the money.”

 

**FRIDAY**

Niall's mom won't actually let him borrow the car come Friday night, so they're all stuck in Liam's ancient jeep, the backseat particularly crowded. Harry's called shotgun, and even though Louis argued loudly that Harry's claim should be forfeited on the grounds that he'd been picked up first and had an unfair advantage, Liam had overruled.

He's probably regretting it now that Harry refuses to keep his hands to himself, reaching out to change the radio station every time Liam pays attention to the road, which is 98% of the time because unlike Niall, Liam doesn't have a death wish. Louis doesn't even feel bad. Well, except for the minor fact that Harry likes shit music, and they all have to suffer for it, but at least Louis' suffering is buffered by righteous satisfaction at being right.

“Harry,” Liam sighs. ““Driver gets to pick the music. That's the rule.”

“Excuse me, Liam. I am a guest in your car, and guests are always right.”

“That doesn't even make _sense_ , H. No, stop, go back – I liked that song!”

Niall had insisted on sitting by the window and Zayn, of course, had agreeably crawled into the backseat after him, leaving Louis to squeeze in last. Liam's jeep is less than spacious under normal circumstances, and it feels downright cramped with three of them shoulder to shoulder in the back. Louis shifts as close as possible to the door, but somehow still manages to press against Zayn's entire length.

Risking a glance over Zayn's head – he's joined in on the radio fight, on Liam's side, to absolutely no one save Harry's surprise – Louis can see the way that Niall's sprawled across the seat, taking up more than his share, his knee pushing into Zayn's thigh.

“Comfortable?” Louis mouths.

Tipping up his eyebrows, Niall threads his hands together behind his head, his elbow nearly smacking into Zayn's skull. Zayn doesn't seem bothered, just slides even closer to Louis, until he's practically crawled in Louis' lap.

It all feels very junior high, and Louis regrets ever being born.

He's jittery by the time they pass the city line, thigh bouncing as the country road slips by beneath them. When Zayn reaches out and places a warm palm just above Louis' knee, stilling him, the remaining ten minutes of the drive are the longest in his life.

There's another squabble when they pull up to the gates - none of them have change for Harry's twenty, and Louis doesn't actually have enough for a ticket - which only gets resolved when Niall threatens to make a spreadsheet and color code it and they all shove bills at Liam. The attendant at the gate is less than impressed with the pile of wrinkled money, but they get their five tickets and still have enough to spare to buy two popcorns.

“I'm sharing with Liam and Harry!” Niall announces loudly. “You and Zayn like too much butter.”

“Hey, I like but-- _ow_ , what the hell, Niall? Why'd you kick m-- _oh_. Yeah, I, uh, I'm actually on a no-butter diet right now, so. You and Zayn can share.” Harry's smile is aggressively normal.

Zayn shoots Harry a look of disbelief. “A no-butter diet? You sure it isn't, like, dairy in general?”

Looping an arm over Zayn's shoulder, Harry steers him towards the concessions. “No, see, there are certain cheeses that are, like, really good for your digestion, and...”

Louis loses the thread of the conversation after that, rounding on Niall. “Is he honest to god bullshitting about a no-butter diet? Are you guys seriously that bad at being wingmen?”

“Bro, you're preaching to the fucking choir. I tried to get Liam to leave him behind, but he was all 'Harry is our friend, it would be mean, blah blah blah'.”

“I don't sound like that,” Liam frowns. “And anyway, it would be mean. Harry is our friend.”

Niall holds his hands out, palms up. “See?”

By the time Zayn and Harry wander back, popcorn in hand, Liam's unpacked several folding chairs from the trunk and Niall's pulled a frisbee out of nowhere, tossing it back and forth with Louis.

“You're gonna hit someone in the face with that, and get us kicked out before the movie even starts,” Liam complains.

“And we'd cherish the memory forever. A story for the kids.” Niall's next throw goes wide, and he loses the frisbee to the crowd. “Ah well. Guess it wasn't meant to be.” He plants himself in one of the chairs Liam's set up. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Me 'n Liam could only find three chairs. Zayn, you and Louis can probably just throw a blanket down in the back of the jeep, watch the movie from there, yeah?”

Zayn shrugs, grabbing a handful of popcorn and crunching noisily. “'S fine with me.”

Which is how Louis finds himself lying in the back of Liam's jeep next to Zayn, the backseat folded down so they have a bit of leg room. The floor of the jeep is unforgiving under Louis' stomach, elbows sore after leaning on them for only a few minutes. Zayn's a line of heat along his side, although there's a few inches of space between them. It feels like a canyon.

In the gap between Niall and Harry's heads, previews start to play, the glare of the massive screen washing everything in a blueish light. Louis gets distracted worrying his fingers over the hem of the blanket, pulling at the frayed edges.

Zayn's shoulder brushes against his, almost hesitant, before pushing again with enough force that Louis glances over. Eyes bright, Zayn slides the tub of popcorn closer to Louis.

“Want some more?” he asks, voice hushed. “The butter's delicious.”

Louis eyes the popcorn for a moment. “How much can we get stuck in Harry's hair before he notices, do you think?”

Zayn looks delighted. “Twenty-seven,” he says immediately, which is strangely specific and also ambitious.

They manage nineteen before Harry catches on, shaking his head and frowning when popcorn rains down on his shoulders. Niall turns around long enough to give Louis a very unimpressed look, which probably has less to do with flicking popcorn at Harry's head and more to do with Louis' failure to trick Zayn into making out.

Louis pulls a face, flicking a piece of popcorn and hitting Niall in the middle of his forehead.

“Behave,” Niall warns him. “Or I'll take it away.”

“You can't tell me what to do, dad,” Louis says, and Zayn collapses next to him, giggling into his shoulder. Rolling his eyes, like Zayn and Louis are actually his insufferable children, Niall reaches back and snatches the popcorn tub away.

“Don't make me ground you,” he mutters, shoving the popcorn into Harry's lap. Zayn's losing it, face completely buried in the fabric of Louis' shirt, laughing hard enough to rattle the van, or maybe just Louis.

Zayn's laughter is infectious, setting Louis off, and they can't stop for a good twenty minutes, one of them cracking as soon as they've both managed to collect themselves and starting the cycle over again. The first movie is a comedy, at least, so the muffled giggles aren't completely out of place. Well, Louis is pretty sure it's a comedy. He sort of forgot to pay attention, too preoccupied with the boy next to him.

Eventually Zayn tires himself out, his head propped on Louis' shoulder, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. Louis can't see Zayn's face, even if he cranes his neck, but he'd bet that Zayn's eyes are drooping closed. Zayn hasn't met a horizontal surface yet that he can't find a way to fall asleep on.

Nudging his shoulder against Zayn's cheek, Louis whispers, “Don't fall asleep on me, Malik. There's still another movie left.”

Zayn blinks slowly at him, rubbing his cheek against Louis' sleeve like a cat. “I'm not sleeping,” he yawns, in a terrible impression of someone who's not three seconds from passing out. “Just, like. Resting my eyes.”

“You're so full of shit,” Louis mumbles back, but it comes out disgustingly fond.

Zayn's mouth pulls up at the corners, his eyes barely there slits. “But you love me anyway.”

Louis' stomach swoops like he's just plunged over an unexpected drop. He has to clear his throat before he can squeeze out a response.

“Yeah,” he rasps, because he loves all his boys, but the admission still feels too honest, like Louis' exposed some secret, soft part of himself that was meant to be kept hidden safely away under lock and key. He reaches out, groping for Zayn's hand, and earns another muffled laugh from Zayn when he presses a sloppy kiss to his knuckles. “Oh Zayn, Zayn,” he simpers, while Zayn bites his lip against a smile. “I just can't get enough of you!”

“You're the one who's full of shit,” Zayn informs him.

Louis' throws Zayn's words back in his face. “But you love me anyway.”

“I do,” Zayn says, simple. Easy. But then, it would be easy for Zayn. He hasn't spent all week, thinking about kissing Louis, fixating on Louis' mouth, tossing and turning all night because he let a stupid bet get the best of him. Without thinking, Louis' gaze drops to Zayn's lips. He could probably taste the butter from the popcorn if they kissed right now, even if he licked his way into Zayn's mouth. Would have to keep kissing him for awhile, until his lips were sore, maybe, until he couldn't taste anything but Zayn.

Zayn's eyes are huge when Louis finally drags his gaze back up, his face close enough to Louis' that he could count Zayn's eyelashes, if he wanted. There's a pink flash of tongue as Zayn licks at his lips, and Louis has to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat. Zayn leans in, even closer, and Louis forgets how to breathe.

Harry's sudden bellowing laugh makes them both flinch, the sound not unlike a braying donkey.

“Fuck,” Louis says as Zayn drops his head, burying another round of laughter into his elbow. “Quit distracting me from the movie, Malik. Some of us came here to have a good time, all right?”

“Whatever you say, Louis,” Zayn peers up at him with one eye, chin still propped against his arm, mouth quirked up into a small smile. Louis' heart is smashing against his rib cage, racing like he just ran a mile, the adrenaline pumping through his veins stronger than any drug.

That's what he wanted, he reminds himself. To light a match, watch something explode. Well. He's certainly felt the heat, hasn't he?

He doesn't catch Zayn's eye again for the rest of the movie, focusing on his breathing and staring resolutely at the screen between Niall and Harry's heads, although he couldn't say, once it's over, what actually happened. It's not until the credits of the first movie are rolling across the screen, Zayn snoring gently beside him, that Louis realizes he's still holding Zayn's hand, thumb rubbing absently over his knuckles where he'd pressed his lips to Zayn's skin.

He doesn't let go, even when his palm goes clammy with sweat.

 

**SATURDAY**

Louis wakes up Saturday morning with a snoozing Zayn wrapped around him like a human burrito and the jarring sound of his phone buzzing aggressively across the floor next to his bed. Not bothering to open his eyes, he flops his arm out, feeling around blindly for a minute before his fingers close over the smooth plastic case.

Zayn snuffles in his sleep, curling in closer and pressing his nose into the nape of Louis' neck. Cracking his eyes open a slit, Louis blinks blearily at his phone screen. He's got texts from Liam, Niall, and Harry, all asking him with an unnecessary amount of punctuation if he's kissed Zayn yet.

Well, that's not quite true, Louis realizes as he scrolls through the messages. Harry's sent him something about beetroots. At second glance, it might actually be a metaphor about kissing that Louis doesn't fully understand.

Louis drops the phone back onto the floor without responding, wincing a bit at the loud clunk it makes when it hits the hardwood. Zayn's still dead to the world, tiny snores buried in Louis' skin, and Louis' had worse excuses to lie in bed all day.

Now that he's awake, though, he's having trouble falling back asleep. He'd been wired all last night through both movies, although Zayn hadn't woken up until half the parking lot had emptied and Niall tried forcibly pulling the blanket, Zayn included, out of the trunk of Liam's jeep. Louis had carefully avoided Liam's gaze in the rearview mirror the whole drive back, while Zayn tried his hardest to turn Niall into a human pillow to continue his nap.

Liam pulled into Louis' driveway first, yawning loudly, and asked with an embarrassing lack of subtly, “Hey, Zayn, you staying at Lou's, or do I have to drive all the way to your house, too?” He yawned again for good measure, the faker. Louis tried valiantly to kill Liam with his eyes, but it appeared he hadn't actually developed that superpower yet.

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn mumbled, stumbling out of the backseat after Louis. Harry's window was rolled down, and he grinned at them both. “Have fun, boys. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

Zayn's laugh was a rusty thing, coated with sleep. “I wouldn't do half the things you _actually_ do, Harry.”

Harry winked, and then Liam was backing out of the driveway, Niall whooping loudly from the backseat. Shaking his head, Louis let them inside, leading the way to his bedroom. They'd kicked off their shoes and shucked their jeans before crawling into bed, Zayn dropping back to sleep almost instantly.

It's not fair, Louis thinks now, absently playing with Zayn's fingers where they're curled securely over his hip. Zayn can avoid all his problems by sleeping, and where does that leave Louis? Alone with his own thoughts. Louis' thoughts are dangerous. He shouldn't have to face them all by himself.

He doesn't realize that the pattern of Zayn's breathing has changed until Zayn's fingers tighten on his hip, pressing against the bone. “What you doin', Lou?” Zayn says into the back of Louis' neck, words muffled into his skin and barely intelligible.

Louis snatches his hand away from Zayn's like it's burned him. “I, uh. Was bored?” he tries, the words coming out a squeak. He clears his throat with a wince.

The answer must satisfy Zayn, or maybe he's still half asleep, because he rubs his cheek against the soft hairs at the base of Louis' skull. “Mmm. Breakfast?”

The tension leaks out of Louis' body until he no longer feels like a bowstring pulled taut enough to snap. “Could text the boys, see if they want to go to Denny's, or something,” he offers in a normal octave. Progress.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs. “Let's get eggs.”

Louis reaches for his phone again, ignoring all of the unanswered messages and opening up a group text.

_**Dennys?? me n zayn are hungry** _

He almost throws his phone across the room when he gets the boys' responses.

_**Is this a celebratoryyyyy meal??? dont want 2 crash ur breakfast date!!!!!** _

_**DID YOU KISS HIM YET!? If you kissed him during the movie you have to tell. Liam so owes me !** _

_**Can we go somewhere where the produce is locally grown? Also, did you fuck Zayn yet?** _

“What are you frowning about?” Zayn asks, finally sitting up. There's a pink crease from the pillow across his cheek, and he runs a hand through his hair, which only makes his bedhead worse. Louis wants to tackle him to the mattress and mark him up with his teeth until his skin is mottled purple, until he'll never forget that _Louis was here_ _, and here, and here_ , but takes a deep breath instead.

“Nothing,” he says when he can trust his voice again. “I'm just going to murder all our friends. You wanna help me hide the bodies?”

Zayn shrugs. “Sure.”

-

Zayn gets his eggs, and Louis gets a lot of pointed stares that he ignores in favor of demolishing a stack of hot cakes. He plasters himself to Zayn's side, because it's the only way to guarantee that no one can ask him about the stupid bet. It's a flawless plan, at least, until Louis realizes he has to piss. He glares at his empty glass of orange juice, feeling betrayed.

Elbowing Liam in the side until he gets the hint and lets Louis out of the booth, Louis climbs to his feet, sparing one last glance back at Zayn, who's happily munching his eggs, oblivious to Louis' suffering.

“You could just ask me to move, like a normal person,” Liam tells him, sounding put out and rubbing at his side.

“You could stop whining like a giant baby,” Louis suggests. There's no subtle way to invite Zayn along with him, and anyway that would only earn him even more obviously pointed stares, so Louis ducks his head and quickly navigates his way around the tables to the bathroom.

It doesn't surprise him in the slightest when Niall walks through the door a few moments after him, whistling a jaunty little tune.

“So,” he says brightly as Louis hovers over the urinal. “I take it you haven't managed to kiss him yet?”

“Here's a thought, and I'm just, like, throwing it out there, bouncing ideas around, but have you considered, I don't know, not cornering me in the bathroom? I literally have my dick out, Niall.”

Niall props his hip against the vanity, arms crossed over his chest. “You're right. I should have brought Zayn along for the dick action.”

“You're very pushy about this whole Zayn thing,” Louis says, finishing up and tucking himself back in his jeans. “Sorry to break it to you, but I didn't make your Friday deadline, so there's nothing in it for you now. Feel free to leave me alone whenever.”

The look on Niall's face is dangerously close to pity. “Oh, Lou,” he says. “I don't care about that. I just want you to be happy, all right? I can't help that you and Zayn are fucking idiots.”

Louis sticks his hands under the faucet for ten seconds, decides they're clean. “Great talk. Real uplifting.”

“Do you want--” Niall starts, but Louis shoves past him.

“My hotcakes are getting cold,” he says, and pushes through the door.

-

Saturday night finds them all in Harry's basement again, and it feels strangely cramped with the five of them, though just last weekend it had seemed so empty without Zayn.

It's possible that the elephant in the room is taking up an unfair share of space, crowding the four of them while Zayn remains blissfully oblivious, but Louis tries not to think about it.

“Who wants to have a Mario Kart tournament?” he asks, because Zayn's sitting next to him on the couch, thigh pressed to Louis', and he needs a distraction or he's going to scream. It's not hard to goad Liam into playing, and Harry gets weirdly competitive about Mario Kart, so as a diversionary tactic it's completely brilliant.

Louis loses every race, badly, and the anxious energy crawling beneath his skin builds and builds the closer it ticks to midnight. He feels bizarrely like Cinderella caught at the ball, and wishes that he had a pair of glass slippers to chuck at Liam's head.

At half past eleven, the furtive looks the other boys keep throwing him prove to be too much. Louis throws down his controller with disgust, scowling as Harry's Peach takes a victory lap.

“Zayn,” he says with a tongue that's suddenly too thick for his mouth. “Promised my mom I'd be home by midnight. Wanna walk with me?”

Zayn's teeth gleam in the glow of the TV screen. “'Course, Lou. Said I'd always protect ya, didn't I?” He nudges Louis' side, leaning in closer to add, “Could be dangerous out there on your own, you know.”

It's more dangerous inside Louis' head, but he doesn't voice this thought aloud. Instead, he creeps up the creaky wooden steps to a chorus of goodbyes from the rest of the boys, Zayn at his heels.

It's a clear night, not a cloud in the sky, and a handful of bold stars wink overhead despite the streetlamps' best attempts to drown them out. The walk to Louis' is only fifteen minutes, twenty if you go at Zayn's ambling pace, and Louis slips his hands in his pockets, feet dragging against the cement.

They fall into step together, Zayn's shoulder bumping Louis' every other step. The night is quiet save for the occasional rumble of a car in the distance, and the silence between them feels like a security blanket, comforting in the dark.

It's Zayn who speaks first, Louis' jumbling thoughts too tangled to voice out loud. “You've been acting weird all week,” he says, shoulder nudging Louis' again, the pressure too firm to be accidental.

Louis swallows. “Have I?”

Slowing to a stop, Zayn turns to face Louis under the halo of a streetlamp, an oasis of light in the dark. It spills across half Zayn's face, highlighting the cut of his cheekbone, the long sweep of his lashes. Louis wants so badly to reach out and touch, and curls his fingers more tightly in his pockets.

“Thought at first it was all in my head, but I don't think it is.” His voice is soft, but his hooded eyes are piercing, like he can see through Louis' skull, into the tangled mess in his head. He takes a step towards Louis, then another, bolder when Louis doesn't back down.

They're the exact same height, so Louis doesn't have to tip his chin at all when Zayn shuffles in close, his scuffed boots toe to toe with Louis' worn chucks. There's a tremor in Zayn's hand that gives him away when he brings his fingers up to touch Louis' jaw, running his fingertips over the peach-fuzz until he reaches the sensitive skin just below Louis' ear.

“Don't think there's anything to interrupt, this time,” he says, voice lower than Louis' ever heard it. “So if this really is all in my head, I need you to tell me right now, before I make an idiot of myself.”

Louis closes his eyes, breathing sharply through his nose. “No,” he says, when he can find words again. “It's not in all in your head.”

Zayn's fingers press harder against his skin, angling his face a little to the side. Louis can feel the warmth of Zayn's breath against his lips when Zayn leans in, and for a long moment, all he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat, echoing in his ears with the roar of river.

With one last shaky breath, Zayn tilts his chin and presses their mouths together, lips catching dry until Louis lets his part with a tiny sigh. There's not an ounce of alcohol in his veins, but he feels drunk all the same, skin buzzing everywhere Zayn's touching him: Zayn's fingertips, hot against the hinge of his jaw; the palm of Zayn's other hand pressing insistently against the small of Louis' back, burning through his t-shirt; his mouth, moving gently against Louis', the wet tip of his tongue sending sparks shooting through his bloodstream.

Louis doesn't know how much time passes, only that his chest's heaving like he just ran a marathon when Zayn finally pulls away, resting his forehead against Louis'. It's a good thing he lied about the curfew thing, because it's definitely passed midnight. He's surprised that Niall hasn't texted him, asking for an update, because of course he'd want to know if Louis won the – fuck.

The bet.

Louis completely forgot.

“Shit, what time is it?”

Zayn doesn't let go of him, reaching with one hand to pull his phone from his back pocket. They both squint down at the screen when it lights up between them. It reads 12:11AM.

“Your mom gonna ground you?” he asks, slipping the phone back into his pocket. His thumb is rubbing soothing little circles against the skin beneath Louis' ear, and Louis tries not to lean into the touch. His heart is still galloping out of control, panic setting in, because not once, over the course of this week, did Louis consider what the hell he was supposed to do if he actually got Zayn to kiss him.

 _Kiss him again_ , his traitorous brain suggests. _You tricked him once, you can trick him again_.

Because now that Louis' had the chance to kiss Zayn, he doesn't really want to stop. Zayn's looking at him with concern, eyes dark beneath the smudge of his lashes, mouth a bruised red in the harsh light of the streetlamp.

“No, it's fine, she won't care,” Louis babbles. Zayn's fingers are burning against the side of his face, or maybe that's just his blood, boiling away in his veins. “I just, uh. You ever feel like you've been hit in the face with a sledgehammer? Like, _bam_! You should have seen it coming, but you just didn't realize until it happened?”

The smile tugging at Zayn's mouth is hesitant. Hopeful. “I think I might know what you mean, yeah.”

Shaking his head, Louis snorts out a little laugh, his head dizzy even though his heart's working in overtime. “Can't believe I owe it all to a bet. Niall's really conniving, isn't he? Little blonde bastard was angling for this the entire time, I'm sure of it. He's probably gonna gloat about it, too, be all, ' _I told you so_.'”

Zayn's face wrinkles in confusion. “What bet?”

Too late, Louis remembers the rule about not telling Zayn. Probably it doesn't apply though, now that they've kissed. “Oh, uh. It's stupid. Don't worry about it.”

Zayn takes a step back, his hand falling away from Louis' cheek. “What fucking bet, Louis?”

Apprehension roils in Louis' stomach, his heartbeat tripping for an entirely different reason. “Um, last weekend, while you were camping? There was a – well, Niall found one of Gem's magazines and it sorta went downhill from there, but the gist of it is, like.” Louis licks his lips, buying himself a minute. “There was this quiz, right, and everyone agreed Harry was the most romantic, which is bullshit, obviously, so then Niall said – he said-- fuck, Zayn, it sounds worse than it is, I swear--”

“What did Niall say?” Zayn's words are ice.

Louis fights the urge to close his eyes so that he doesn't have to see the expression on Zayn's face harden into something unforgiving and forces the words out between clenched teeth. “Said if I wanted to prove myself, I had to get you to kiss me.”

“Did he.” Zayn takes another step backwards, out of reach, away from the glow of the streetlamps until shadows hide his features. Not that it matters. Louis won't be forgetting that look anytime soon.

“Don't – don't put this on Niall. He was just – I don't know, exactly, but he – I was the one who – Zayn, listen, okay, it's not about the bet--”

“No, it's not,” Zayn agrees. “It's about the fact that you _agreed_ to it. What the hell, Louis? What were you thinking?"

"I - I wasn't, okay, I'd never--"

But Zayn's shaking his head, face still shrouded in darkness. "I don't get it. Was it your intent to hurt me? 'Cause guess what? Mission fucking accomplished.”

“No, no, I – fuck, Zayn, please, just listen to me, okay. I didn't, like – I didn't think I'd get another chance, right, to get to kiss you.” He's babbling, the words tripping over his tongue and coming out a mess. This is all wrong, and Louis doesn't know how to fix it. He wants to rewind the past five minutes, and make this conversation never happen. Can't find it in himself to want to undo the entire week, though. That's maybe the scariest thing of all. 

“Are you listening to yourself, Louis? That doesn't even make sense! If you really, if you--” Zayn cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I need to go.”

“Zayn, wait,” Louis begs, taking a half step forward. “If you just hear me--”

“Yeah, no, I think I've heard enough for tonight. Keep your excuses, Lou. I'm done listening.” Turning on his heel, he stalks off into the night, leaving Louis alone in his empty little circle of light. He stands there a long time, until he's nearly convinced himself the wetness pricking at his eyes is because of dust, and nothing more.

 

**SUNDAY**

Louis' stomach is twisted in knots when he first wakes up, morning light prying at his eyelids, but for a few almost peaceful moments, he can't remember why. It hits him like a brick to the face a second later, and his eyes fly open.

Right. He just fucked up his entire life last night. No big deal, or anything.

It sounds like a promising idea to burrow beneath his blankets and never, ever come out, but as soon as he buries his head under his pillow, his phone buzzes loudly right in his ear.

“Why?” he moans out loud, and is rewarded with a mouthful of sheet. Spitting it out, he gropes for the phone. Chucking it across the room would probably be in his best interest, but on the off chance Zayn has tried to contact him, agonizing over how to respond for several hours would be a great use of his time.

A quick check reveals several missed calls and texts, but none are from Zayn. None appear to be yelling at him, either, so apparently Zayn hasn't told anyone what happened. For some reason, that makes Louis feel even worse.

Making a split second decision, Louis thumbs through his contact list, punching the call button before he can talk himself out of it. It only rings once before Niall picks up with a chipper, “Heya Lou!”

“You've ruined my life, and I'm never speaking to you again,” Louis informs him.

On the other end of the line, Niall pauses. “Did you call me specifically to tell me that you're no longer talking to me?”

Louis stares up at the ceiling, phone pressed to his ear. “No, I also called to tell you I hate you and you'll have to live with that forever.”

Another pause. Louis can practically hear the gears turning in Niall's head. “Louis? What happened with Zayn last night?”

For once, Niall's scary intuition is a blessing. Flopping an arm across his face, Louis says, “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Riiiiight,” Niall draws out the word. “What if we meet at Dairy Queen and I buy you a blizzard?”

Louis considers. “Make it a large and we have a deal.”

“Whatever, Tommo,” Niall says, which means yes.

-

Louis orders extra toppings to boot, and Niall must see something in his face because he doesn't even bat an eye. It's not until they're both sat in a booth near the back that Niall brings it up with his usual tact.

“So. You and Zayn. I take it you lost the bet?”

Stabbing at his ice cream, Louis tries to dig free a chunk of cookie dough. “Not exactly.”

Niall's eyebrow shoots up. “What do you mean, not exactly? Either he kissed you or he didn't.”

Louis can't quite meet Niall's eye, focusing his gaze on the important excavation happening in front of him. “Oh, he kissed me. Just not sure how strict that 'by midnight' rule was, or him never wanting to speak to me again afterwards factors into all this.”

Niall's spoon clatters to the table, oreo crumbles flying everywhere. “He actually kissed you? Holy shit. I need to call Harry.” He's already reaching for his phone before the rest of Louis' words seem to process. “Wait, wait, shit, back up. How do you go from kissing to never speaking again?”

“Pretty easily, actually. Just had to open my big fucking mouth, and the next thing you know he's storming off, refusing to talk to me.”

Niall's eyes are huge. “Louis. You didn't _tell_ him, did you?”

Hunching his shoulders defensively, Louis says, “It's not like I meant to!”

“You fucking idiot, Lou. We said you weren't supposed to tell him about the bet. We _said_.”

“So what the fuck was I supposed to tell him, then?” Louis thunders. “That I kissed him just for fun? You can't just kiss your best friend for no reason!”

“Was that all it was?” Niall fires back. “Just fun?”

Louis slumps back in his seat. “No, actually. It was fucking awful.”

“Really." The skepticism in Niall's tone is thick enough to choke on. "Kissing Zayn was awful.”

“No,” Louis admits in a small voice. “The part where I didn't want to stop was awful. The part where I don't know what the fuck I'm doing is awful. The part where if I fuck this up – if it's not fucked beyond repair already – means that I'll lose my best friend is awful.”

For a long moment, Niall is silent. Louis' appetite is gone, but he starts another excavation anyway, carving into his ice cream just to have something to do with his hands. “For what it's worth,” Niall finally says. “This – thing? Between you and Zayn? It's not one-sided, Lou. It's not just you.”

“Yeah, I figured that one out around the time he stuck his tongue in my mouth. I'm not completely dense, Niall.”

Niall snorts. “Did not need that visual, thanks. But I'm being serious here, Louis. Zayn is completely gone for you. Do you have any idea how sickening it was, watching the two of you making eyes at each other all the time, but somehow managing to be completely fucking oblivious?”

“I never _made eyes_ at Zayn, first of all--”

“What do you call it, then, when you stare at his mouth like you want to eat him alive?”

“Lies and slander.”

Rolling his eyes, Niall points his spoon at Louis. “Listen, bro. I would not have made that bet with you, if I thought it would end badly. You two finally figured out you're in love, yeah? Big step forward there. This is salvageable. Go salvage it.”

Louis drops a chunk of cookie dough onto the table before digging back into his ice cream. “Love is.. kind of a strong word, don't you think?”

“You're stalling,” Niall says.

“I don't know what to do,” Louis admits. “He's probably going to punch me in the face the next time he sees me. You didn't see the way he looked, after...”

Eyes sympathetic, Niall says, “Whatever you do, do it quick. Don't let Zayn get too far inside his own head or you'll never be able to pull him out. You're the self-proclaimed romantic that got Zayn to kiss him in a week, aren't you? You'll figure something out.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Shoveling a bite of ice cream onto his spoon, Louis manages to swallow it down, his stomach finally cooperating.

-

By the time Louis' put away half his blizzard, dark clouds have built up until they shroud most of the sky, leaving the day a dull gray.

Niall offers him a ride, but Louis' plans don't involve dying in a fiery crash before he's made a fool of himself trying to win Zayn back, or whatever the fuck he's doing. He opts to go on foot, cutting over fences and through backyards to get there faster.

Thunder booms when he reaches Zayn's street, and the first drop of rain hits him square on the nose. No brilliant ideas have come to him on the walk over, and he hesitates on the sidewalk in front of Zayn's house. There's a chance, however slim, that Zayn's told his mom what happened, or at the very least, told her not to let Louis through the door. He's not sure he can face Trisha's judgment if he has to look her in the eye.

The rain's starting to pick up, the fabric of Louis' t-shirt damp and his eyelashes clumping wetly. Taking a deep breath, Louis steps onto the grass, slipping around the side of the house and picking his way through the garden, careful not to squish Zayn's mom's flowers.

Behind his thick curtains, the light in Zayn's window is on. Louis bites his lip. It's time to commit. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Louis thumbs through his music, shielding the screen the best he can from the rainfall. Once he's settled on a song, he glances around, spotting a few pebbles. They're slippery with rain when he scoops them up, testing the weight. It's a terrible cliché, rocks against a windowpane. He hopes Zayn appreciates it.

It takes six or seven throws before the curtain twitches, a vaguely Zayn-shaped shadow filling the window. Louis holds his breath as Zayn's fingers curl around the edge of the fabric, jerking it open. It's a little hard to make out his expression from the ground, but if Louis were a betting man, he wouldn't describe it as happy.

With fumbling fingers, Louis presses play, turning the volume up as high as it will go. The music sounds a little tinny from his phone speakers, but the opening chords are loud enough for Zayn to catch.

“Zayn,” Louis yells over the music, rivets of rain running down his face. “I messed up. I'm sorry.”

In the window, Zayn crosses his arms. “And you think _The Fray_ is going to make me forgive you?”

Louis tries out a smile. “No? But I thought serenading you might buy me a chance to explain myself.”

For a long moment, Zayn stares down at him, expression dark as the clouds overhead. Then he finally says, “Fine. Five minutes. I'll meet you on the back porch.”

Zayn's curtains twitch shut, his light shutting off a second later, and Louis scrambles to the backyard, the soles of his shoes slipping on the slick grass. Somehow, Zayn's beaten him to the back, leaning against the doorframe so that he's safely covered by the small overhanging roof. Louis figures it's a small price to pay, having this conversation while only one of them is cold and wet, since both of them are clearly miserable.

“I'm so sorry,” Louis says again, because he hasn't prepared a speech and it doesn't hurt to underscore the point. Louis is incredibly, wretchedly sorry. “Please believe that I never, ever wanted to hurt you.”

Zayn watches him from his safe perch beneath the roof. “Why does my life feel like a bad teen movie?”

It's a good sign, right, that Zayn is making jokes? Louis could take the easy out, but instead he squares his shoulders, adding, “I should never have agreed to that bet, okay? I know Niall and the boys meant well, but that was – it was stupid. Really, really stupid. I'm - I'm glad I did, though.”

Zayn glances up, startled, and Louis soldiers on. “Because I've been an even bigger idiot than agreeing to a stupid bet, and if they hadn't, like, tricked me into it, I don't think I would have ever figured that out. I, uh. I thought about kissing you a lot, if I'm being honest. Like, before Niall even said anything. The 'L' word was also thrown around, earlier today, and I don't – I'm not quite there yet, but. I could be, someday?" It's sort of like ripping his chest open to show Zayn his raw, bleeding heart, so he quickly tacks on, "What I'm trying to say is that I'm crazy into you, Zayn. And I think, um. If you, if you'd have me, I'd... I'd like to keep on kissing you, at the very least.”

Lips twitching like he's fighting the urge to smile, Zayn says, “Really, Lou? Heartfelt confessions in the rain?”

“Well, shit, Zayn. I can't control the weather.”

Zayn takes a step forward, out from under the overhang. Rain immediately pummels him, drenching his hair and saturating his clothes. “You're an idiot, but I think I am too, 'cause I, uh. I'm right there with you, with the kissing thing.”

Relief fills Louis' veins, warm against the onslaught of rain. “Just to make sure. No one's made any bets, have they? This is just us, being completely honest?”

Shaking his head, Zayn takes another step forward. “Yes, Lou. This is what honesty looks like.” And then he's reached Louis, fingers hesitating only a moment before they brush against Louis' cheek, pinpoints of warmth in the downpour.

“I'm crazy into you, too,” Zayn mumbles, mouth unfurling into a bright smile. “For the sake of honesty.” Then he's ducking his head, mouth pressed to Louis', and Louis forgets about everything except for the feel of Zayn's warms lips against his, the press of his fingers against Louis' skin.

“Oh,” Louis says when Zayn pulls back a long moment later. “I like honest. Honest is good.”

Laughing, Zayn pulls him in again, kissing Louis until he chases the taste of rain from his lips.

 

**SATURDAY (ONE WEEK LATER)**

Louis' made a home for himself on the lumpy, thread-bare couch, Zayn tucked along his side, his arm wrapped securely around Louis' waist. There's a buzz, just beneath his skin, but Zayn nuzzles his face into Louis' neck, lips brushing against his pulse. It's exactly the touch he needed to scratch the itch, his blood thrumming with excitement.

“Is this what it's going to be like now?” Niall complains from his beanbag prison, like this whole thing isn't his fault in the first place. One of these days he really will get stuck in that thing, and Louis' not even going to feel bad about it. “Just constant hand holding? Disgusting PDA? The two of you grossly in love?”

“I think it's sweet,” Liam interjects from the other end of the couch, beaming at Louis and Zayn. It's possible his good mood is only because he just beat Harry in Mario Kart, but Louis respects that in a person.

“We're not even holding hands,” he points out, as technically his hand is shoved down the back of Zayn's jeans. Niall definitely can't tell, or he'd be complaining with a lot more volume. “You're more intimate with that beanbag, if I'm being honest.” He's not, as such, but his honestly policy really only extends towards Zayn, and sometimes his mom once he's been caught in a lie.

A sly smile slips across Zayn's face. “We're behaving ourselves, Niall. Honest.”

“I knew this would happen,” Harry says from the floor, tossing his controller with a pout. It's not clear if he's talking about them or the game, until he adds, “I've seen this movie before. It always ends happily ever after.”

Niall wrestles with his shoe for a moment before he pulls it off his foot, promptly throwing it at Harry's face. “Heyyyy!” Harry protests, as Liam looks torn between concern for Harry's well being and laughing at Harry's plight.

Just as well. It leaves the three of them distracted so Louis can steal a quick kiss.

“Think you're quite the romantic, don't ya?” Zayn asks with a smile.

“I'm the damn king,” Louis tells him, since he's being honest.

 

**THE END**

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feedback/comments welcome! you can also come say hi on [tumblr](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> also, shout out to sugarscape for the help with the romance quiz and to harry styles's multiple wick candles.


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